Glee 2x20 PROM KING webisodes
by Alex Karofsky
Summary: Stream of consciousness technique. Dave's thoughts during the coronation scene in Glee 2.20 PROM QUEEN episode. And after. Seeing the world through Karofsky's eyes. - - - - This is my first fanfic post here. comments are appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

SETTING: GLEE 2.20 Prom Queen

POINT OF VIEW: David Karofsky (me)

DISCLAIMER: Fox owns the rights to GLEE. This is just fan fiction. Live with it.

* * *

><p>PROM KING<p>

* * *

><p><em><strong>* Right after Blaine says: "Kurt! Wait!"<strong>_

I did it. I laid my soul bare in front of the one person that seems to accept me for who I actually am. And I'd done so much bad to him. I was his nemesis. And he forgave me. And now … this. I hate you, Hummel. I hate… You forgave me. I can't hate you. I can't.

I am such a mega douche. I couldn't pull myself together and not cry in front of the guy. But he said he understood. I guess I would've understood if I were in his shoes. Or not. I dunno. What's so freaking difficult about it? Apology accepted, you moron. He accepted your apology, your true self, and your… is it – pain? Probably.

Why is it so hard for me to accept this now? Why is everybody staring at me? Is it the crown? It doesn't fit. I am not their king, and they know it. I am… faking it, here, on this comfortable loveseat, right after joking with Figgins on stage. They saw it, they ate it up. They know. They _know_, I mean, they must sense that something is wrong with me. Something is. Something really is wrong with me. But I ain't Hummel. I ain't _that_.

And how come _he__'__s_ the queen? The friggin' prom queen?

OMG. Secret ballot. No other way. It must be that. _Secret_ ballot. And it was Jacob Ben Israel who counted the votes. And that Cheerio blonde, what's-her-name. Secret _ballot_. It's a secret, then, in this school. Is _my_ secret still a secret in this school?

Santana. Where is Santana? Why isn't she protesting? Why isn't she tearing Ben Israel's clothes in a rage and pulling handfuls of his jewfro? Why isn't she Lima-Heights-ing someone? Why am I even thinking of her now?

The _Bully__Whips._ Every-friggin'-body saw me walk _him_ to class. Santana escorting him – fine. She's escorted guys before. Kurt's not a guy. Not a guy's guy. He's just… something. A fairy. And now he's a fairy queen and I'm his fairy … king. OMG. Someone must have seen me cry in front him right before French class. Someone must've overheard that _he __feels __my __pain._ You can't really feel it, Kurt, you can't. Just as I can't feel your pain right now. Wherever you are, wherever Warbler-dearest is wiping your tears, I can't feel it 'cause I can't know.

Someone must have overheard. And now they're here, staring at me like brain-dead zombies and waiting for something to happen. Should I be even smirking like this? Should I be even scratching my pants like this? Dare I look elsewhere? There's Brad, on the piano, talking to the Jazz Band. There's Figgins, asking them all to calm down and wait. There's Mike, and Puck, and Sam. I can't tell what they are talking abo… Me. About me. Just look at their eyes. They're hating me. For what I did to Kurt. And to think I've blocked for them?

And there's this line or two of people right in front of the stage.

"_Karofsky's got it bad this time."_

"_It was Pettinger's idea, and he…"_

"_I voted Santofsky, why is this going on now?" _

"_Where's that lady-boy? Is he…out crying?"  
><em>

Stop. Everybody stop!

I yell and scream and shout and get up and destroy everyone with… this is not HALO. This is not even remotely HALO. I'm not wearing … hell, I'm here with a $5 party crown on my head and a misery to match. Please stop looking at me, Figgins, please. Please, not the long face. Not now.

I've probably disappointed you by not acting after Kurt ran out. Was I supposed to? That would make me … what Kurt has. Is. What Kurt is. Where are the other _Bully __Whips?_ Where's…

Azimio. Z. Where _are_ you, Z?

I can't see him anywhere. Is he making out with his prom date somewhere in this school? I need to see and look at someone I trust. Like Z. Not Kurt. Where is Kurt? Where is Z? Come on, Z. Don't leave me here alone.

Or is he… laughing with… _them_? All of them grimacing here and ogling me crown to shoe? Z? Would you do _that_ to me? Oh, man, just KMN.

Mr. Schue. He's not looking for Kurt. He's here. What's going on? Is this monstrosity of a prom over? Please, please, let it be over. No, Mercedes is coming up to… sing, I guess. But no Z. Anywhere. Who is Mr. Schue looking for now? Santana? Why am I not looking for her? Does it matter? Does it really matter, when I'm shaking like a leaf here?

My cell-phone. Vibrating. Someone's texting me. I can't. I can't take my phone out and read that now. It'll be weird. It'll be someone irrelevant and I'll still be thinking about how to get the frak outta here without being noticed. But I already have this crown of thorns to wear. Can I please cry and still be Karofsky?

Kurt. He's been crying. He's coming. He's coming to get coronated. Oh, god. Oh, god, god, no. Please look at him, look at him, you crazy people, look at _him_. You _voted_ for _him_. And… and for me.

This is my penance, it seems.

**FIGGINS: Ladies and gentlemen, your 2011 Prom Queen, Kurt Hummel.  
><strong>

This is it. Now it's official. I am the Prom King of a g… lady boy. Too much of a lady. And a boy. I must behave like a gentleman, I promised that to my dad. My dad. What do I tell him about thi…

**KURT: Eat your heart out, Kate Middleton.  
><strong>

Who is Kate Middleton? Who am I? Where's Azimio? Where's Santana? There she is. Petrified, or just angry. I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, Santana, for this. But please don't get even over this. Don't out me. This is not my fault.

**FIGGINS: And now, behold the tradition of our 2011 Prom King and Queen sharing their first dance.  
><strong>

No. No. I can't. Not with Kurt. He's supposed to be Santana. He isn't. That isn't Santana. That isn't a girl. That's … probably me.

**KURT: Now's your moment.  
><strong>

Everybody's eyes are on me. Not Kurt. Why would they be? They know him. They've seen his glamorous and flamboyant ways. They know he's got a boyfriend. They know that… I bullied him. But, what moment?

**ME: What?  
><strong>

I realize what he means. I can't. Kurt, I can't. It's… not right. Not me, not I. Not David, and not David Karofsky. Not Azimio's friend. Not Dave, the football player. Not Karofsky, who's dating Santana. Not me. No.

I can't even keep a poker face anymore. I show.

My heart is thumping and my palms are clammy. I feel I have paper in my mouth. I can't even look at Kurt. I can't see who's standing in front of me, who's mocking me in my face knowing that I can't see them because of the spot light.

**KURT: Come out. Make a difference.  
><strong>

What difference would that be, Kurt? You'd still be you. I won't be me after this. I'd be different.

No one will talk to me about girls and dating and slushies and football practice and the game on TV.

No one will see me as the football star and the duke stud I've become here at McKinley.

Not a single person would want to treat me … hell, they'll end up treating me like I treated you.

I'll become an over-grown Hulk version of you, Kurt. And you'd still be you.

_* ABBA's "Dancing Queen" starts playing*  
><em>

I'm sorry, Kurt, I'm sorry. I…

I am not… like you. I'm not brave. I don't have the courage to stand up to all these people and … do… this. I…

**ME: I can't.  
><strong>

Leave. Run. Get out. Retreat. Don't tackle anyone, this ain't a game.

Outside. Yes, outside. My car.

Why is everyone staring at me? Look elsewhere!... please, look elsewhere. Please.

I don't need this crown any more. I don't. Here, McKinley, take your shitty crown. I don't care. I don't care about the stupid lockers, the people I shoved at the lockers, the people who helped me shove others… They're all the same. Same thing, different label.

Label. Did I just get a new one? Did they really stick something on me? Am I still the jock? Or just the bully? Or just Santana's latest catch? I am Kurt's Prom King.

The fuck with that. The fuck with the blackmailing, and the campaigning and the apology and pretending and the beards and all else.

Why did I stop? The poster. The friggin' poster! I'm sorry, Santana. I can't. I couldn't. I'm sorry. I'm crying. Why the fuck am I crying? I want to go back there and punch somebody. Not Kurt. It's not his fault that the world is screwed up even more than I ever imagined. But at least I'm still me, I'm still D…

"Dave! Yo, D! Wait up!"

Z. It's Z.

I turn around, not caring at all that he can see me crying. He's seen me cry tons of times. After practice. Whenever I sprain my ligaments. That one time years ago when I fell of my bike and nearly cracked my skull open.

"Why aren't you in there dancing?", says Azimio, without his usual attitude. His eyes were holding back something. I could see it. I know his usual self and this ain't it. He… He's worried? Is that it? Like when I was expelled from school?

"Did you see what happened in there, Z? I got punked. At my own freakin' junior prom. And you want me to go _back_ _there_ and dance?"

"Dave, you should be IN THERE, not OUT HERE in the hallways", Z raised his voice a little. Nothing new, his attitude was back. But with a 180-turn.

"Where were you all this time?"

I honestly got mad at him for not being there when I needed him. But it's Z, Dave, he's got your back. He's always got your back. Why this now?

"By the exit. You walked right past me and didn't even hear me calling you."

"I'm outta here, Z. I can't… I just can't…"

I turned around and pushed the doors open. The night air and the buzzing of the cars nearby was the snap back to reality I needed. Azimio followed. Not a word. Not his usual loud-mouthed or foul-mouthed self.

I needed the air. I looked at the sky, the moon, the cloudlets playing in front of the moon. I should've acted differently in there. But it's too late now.

"Dude, let me drive you home. And wipe those tears, you look like someone died."

Someone _did_ die in there, Z. Me. David Karofsky died in there. Gaze upon gaze from the indifferent yet indignant crowd, piece by piece of me dropped dead on the floor. And Hummel delivered the final blow. _Make __a __difference_, he said. Sure. Yeah, right.

"Shut _up_, Z! Just… Shut the fuck up! Leave me be!" I walked to my car saying, actually shouting this to Azimio without even bothering to look him in the eye. I've yelled at him before, but never to shut up. I opened the car door, when he comes next to me, grabs my keys and coolly says:

"D, I'm driving. Get in."

He looked at me like he was gonna punch me in the face. I know that look all too well. I composed myself that very instant. I wiped my eyes. I could still hear the music. It stopped. No more _Dancing__Queen_. No more Kurt, Santana, prom, football practice, and probably no more Z in my life.

Did he know? Did he know my secret?

Z got in the car, but didn't turn on the ignition key, nor did he switch the lights on. Then he just spoke:

"Two things: one, all us football guys voted Kurtofsky for Prom King and Queen. And for _that_ I am more than sorry…

I wanted to punch him in the face, or in that gut of his. Full throttle punch. No questions asked, no explanation needed, no apology afterwards.

"… and, two, I know there's something you're not telling me. I saw how you looked at Kurt, when he mumbled something before the dance."

What I am hiding, Z? Is that what you want to know?

You want to know that I'm a flaming homo? Fuckin' GAY like Hummel?

* * *

><p>To be continued…<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

SETTING: GLEE 2.20 Prom Queen (non-canon)

POINT OF VIEW: David Karofsky (me)

DISCLAIMER: Fox owns the rights to GLEE. This is just fan fiction. Live with it.

* * *

><p>PROM KING, chapter 2<p>

* * *

><p>Mellow. The air is thickening between me and Azimio in the car. All I can think of is the word <em>MELLOW<em>. And if I am now definable as such.

The radio is bleating something unfamiliar and slow. The speed is … I don't want to know. It's not fast. Not many cars, not much to do. The time. What's the time? Time to keep quiet, to shut up, to remain vigil and see who speaks first. Five or ten minutes and no talking in the car. Z is barely breathing… I can hear him breathe, but he barely makes a sound. The song on the radio.

It's not _Dancing __Queen._ I should be happy about it. She's asking for forgiveness… or begging him not to leave… or something about wanting and needing… Something.

"You got yer fake ID with ya?"

Why, Z, why _would_ I need a fucki… never mind. I'm going home. A shower to wash off the shame. The box of Kleenex to blow out the guilt through my nose. And to hunt all the tears that are about to fly free. Can I? May I? Why? Why the ID?

"Why?"

A visit to the strip club again? Not in the mood. Z, not while my world is crumbling down, and I'm made of the same stuff the world is. Last time they knew we're minors. Kids. Who didn't know what they were doing there, just know why they were there. Boys. Not even men. Am I a man tonight? Maybe we should go there and see if I am… a man. A human male. A male. Something with a penis.

"I need a drink. Like, I really need a beer. You could use one."

Z, I need more than a beer. I need a fucking bridge to jump off of while there's a speeding truck passing below. And be-all and end-all. A personal Armageddon. Since the social suicide already took place. At McKinley. At fucking _Titans_ ground and pride.

The place where I got coronated Prom King. Where I 'dated' Santana. Where I got expelled. Where I threatened to kill someone. Where I kissed that same someone. Where I pushed and shoved and attacked that someone. Where I … Where am I going like this?

"Where to?"

I want to get out of these clothes, Z, I want to escape the feeling of having a crown on my head.

"Just the… the liquor store close to my house. You're buying…"

"_I'm _buying?"

I'm buying because they _know_ him there, that's why. I shouldn't have cut him off in the middle of a sentence like that. I cut his temper, too. The restrains of it, most likely.

"No, I mean… Shit, David! Shit! Shit!"

Don't slam the steering wheel, dude, it'll break. It's just round; it's just something that you are hitting just because you can't understand it, even though it's the thing that gives direction. That _has_ control. You _choose_ to steer it. It's a mechanism of _attaining_ control. And I know your strength, just how many times have you tackled me at practice? We'll lose control after having a beer or two. I'll yell at ya, you'll yell at me. I don't want to steer out of control. Eyes on the road please! Z! He knows his driving.

Too long a pause, and I must say something. Red light approaching.

"What?"

The car stops. Why are you looking at me like that, Z? You _are_ judging me, aren't you? For what I did. Just 20-odd minutes ago. For what I had done _before_ that.

I began to shut you out. Not hang out. Take Santana's version of things and word for everything and being blackmailed to what end? To get punked at my own junior prom by my teammates and my best friend. And let me be all Kurt about it. I forgive you. And I know. The thing is - what do you know? And how.

"Is it true?"

"Is _what_ true?"

"That Kurt's got something on ya."

Kurt's got nothing on me. Or everything on me. But nothing that you'd want to know and like if you knew. I've got more on Kurt, or … do I? I steered in Kurt's direction, because _he_ was the way. The way to freedom, to waking up with a… boner… and a dirty thought about a dude… and acting upon it… and…

OMG, Z _knows_. What do I say now, when I'm cornered?

"Like what?"

I growled. I was condescending. I was defensive. And Z never attacked. He just asked.

"Dunno. People are talking that he's got you under his thumb for something, that he's blackmailing you or something."

Oh, Z, is that it? You think that Fancy-Pansy is blackmailing me? Just the opposite. The very opposite. He's my partner in crime. If it's a crime to be … gay. I'm no criminal.

_Come clean. Tell him. It's Z. He's got your back. Your sidekick, he is._

**Don't tell him. He's just… a hater. A slushie-specialist. A jock. The villain I was.**

_Why not trade the truth for a sympathetic ear and someone to be there for you?_

**All **_**that **_**you****'****re ****gonna ****quit ****being ****if ****and ****when ****you ****come ****clean. ****No ****secret ****identity ****no** **more.**

_The truth will set you free. Curtains fall. Masks fall. _

**Honesty can get you killed. In comics.**

_It's worth telling him. He's a main character._

**He's gonna turn into an asshole. A vigilante. **

_Do it. And watch how it gets better. _

_It gets better. It has to. It has to get happier. And better._

"Gay."

I said it out loud. My mouth didn't start bleeding, my ears didn't catch on fire, my eyes didn't fall off. My first time. To voice a nightmare that owned me. To grab the reigns of a horse from hell and tame it. To wield a sword without fear of hurting myself.

"That he is. Why'r'ya telling me thi..."

This is it, Z. This changes everything between us. Before the nightmare continues, before the horse from hell escapes, before the sword kills its wielder. Will I be on your team or not, even though I don't play for your team, is a matter totally up to you.

"Me, not him. Not just him…"

"Dude, I said I'm more than sorry for voting Kurtofsky on the ballot, why's your white ass pulling such jokes on me now?"

Look in my eyes, Z, you know that I speak the truth. To you I only speak the truth. So help me god.

It's green. He didn't look me in the eye. He takes the next right and there's his street. There's the liquor store. He stops. Look me in the eye, look me in the fucking gay Cyclops eye, Z, and know. Learn. See me better. See me get better.

I can see him turning the engine off like a slow-mo. He's looking at the radio, is it the numbers? The name of the station? Looks me in the eyes, wants to say something. His forehead is furrowed beyond recognition. Squints his eyes. Shakes his head. Looks in the steering wheel's air bag.

He understood. I didn't have to repeat it.

"Did he blackmail you or anything?" he spoke nervously, dragging the words through his clenched teeth. I can see his fists forming. Audible breathing.

"No, it was… it wasn't like that. Nothing like that."

I can't see his eyes. He's looking outside towards the neon lights of the liquor store.

"Maybe you should drive yourself home, David."

He NEVER calls me David. Except when he's… and he _is_, apparently, disappointed in me. I myself am disappointed in me. I can't hold on to this crumbling world around me.

"OK, I will. But tell me one thin…" I can't finish because then he starts shouting. His face speaks volumes. His voice is strangely unnerved. His hand gestures like he's trying to get rid of something that got stuck.

"I _fucking_ forgave you for getting yourself kicked out of school and leaving us high and dry on the game that day. We lost. Because of _you_. And of course I forgave you for _Bully __Whipp_ing me with Santana that day in the hall. Cos I'm your best bud."

"But…" He cuts me off as I try to voice my concern. I have no intention of completing that particular sentence.

"There's no but. I just … Don't know what to say. Here I am, thinking that… never mind."

I'm losing the best friend I've ever had. That's what you're thinking, Z. That's at least what I'm thinking. No more Azimio in my life. Why? Over my untested sex drive. I haven't even learned to steer that vehicle, Z, I barely opened the driver side door and got in. I barely acknowledged the fact that it's not even pink. It's dark. It's very dark. And I'm not Kurt to navigate through that darkness prancing about and relying on the people around me for shelter, strength and tenacity.

But I'm stronger than I was half an hour ago. I ran only to come across my own… my own self. The self I owned wasn't… Real? Complete? Proper?

"Z, please, I'm scared shitless. They say it takes balls to… come out, you know. I barely could accept this myself. The crown thing didn't help. I mean, not in the direction I was hoping for. And I haven't told anyone but you."

"But _someone_ else knows."

"Kurt does. Santana too... I'm still _me_, you know. The _same_. "

I didn't need to say that. Stupid. So, so stupid, dumbass David Karofsky. Let it be writ on my tombstone that I rest there in peace dumb as a brick and stupid as a shithouse.

"I'm… um… gonna go now."

I can't look at him. I honest-to-god can't turn my eyes as I'm hearing him get out. No seat belt, not even me. This was a dangerous ride. Did I survive? Will I survive? _No__one_ must know. He mustn't put any street signs leading back to me. He mustn't speak of this. Forever hold his peace.

"Z, please, please don't te...", I beg of him, still not looking at him, still looking at the wipers on the windshield and the lines they make while not moving. Parallel lines. Moving together. Cleaning as one. Against the rain.

I can barely notice that one of them is missing, because I want to cry.

"Not to a living soul, I won't"

The door slams shut. Tears start welling in my eyes.

It's time to go home. Ignition. Reverse. Right. Straight ahead, then left, then left again. Prom people. Straight again. Pass the bridge. Take a right. Just fucking get home. There it is. There's the drive way. The lights. The people who're expecting me to show up hours later from now and be merry about it and possibly drunk.

Lock the car. Maybe there's people around. Maybe they need to get a fucking life. Back door. Yes, back door. Straight upstairs. Tell no one. That you're home. That you're prom king. That you're gay. That you're no longer what you were. That Z is hating. And lock the door.

The bathroom door. In the bathroom. The mirror. It'll shatter. It will shatter. I know it. The moment I look at it, it'll break. I can't look at it. I can't see anything.

Fuck these gay tears. This gay tux. And shirt. And all. The tears must go, the sleeve. Yes. I can see myself in the mirror. It's melting. It's breaking.

That is no longer Paul Karofsky's son you're seeing there, David. No. This is the body of a failure. Of a fagg…

Whatever.

Hi, mirror, I'm Kurt Hummel, trapped in David Karofsky's body.

Nice to meet you, nice to fucking… meet… you… I hate you… hate you, David.

Your red eyes are no match for the passion you'll never see.

Your shirt is useless. Take it off. Take it off, unbutton it and leave it aside.

These pants, I hate them. These socks are dirty. I should hit myself with the belt, I deserve it.

I can't hold on to what I have, I just _had_ to turn gay, now, didn't I?

There go the pants, the belt.

There go the tears, rinsing the day, letting everything I am and have been and should've kept on being go down the drain.

A chubby boy who sweats too much.

I can see my knees. I take off my socks. I am so ugly in my underwear. I peel it off. I can see my chest. Here's my heart. Here's where my heart used to be.

Naked. And gay. The first time. The mirror sees me like this for the first time. Yet, I'm ugly. I _feel_ ugly. Ugly for crying like a bitch.

I am a FUCKING DUDE! A chubby boy who sweats too much.

But… my manhood is still the same. I'm hairy, and … chubby, and endowed. Ha. Endowed. I got a decent-sized dick and balls. I've seen the guys in the showers. I'm good. And look at me. I'm a guy's guy. Not Fancy-Pansy. I'm a steam locomotive. Loco. Yes, I can be that. I can flex my muscles like this at others to show off and scare them. As long … as… they don't know my true nature.

That to them, I'll always be this naked. Ugly. A thing to point at. Hell-bound and cock-hound. Afraid that I'll … peak at their junk. Look at your own junk, David. You're a man now. And now, get a shower, and go to bed.

Shake it all off. Enough of this. Prom is over. Time for real life. Let the tap run. Let the water run its course. Cos it's better than self-pity. Any day of the week.

The water's good. Warm. Healing. I can feel the rivers in my head coming to a standstill. Not really, no. But no flooding, I should hope, not tonight.

I shall thus wash off all the sins of my previous life. Reincarnate myself into something other than this. The Prom King crown is being washed off. Not the tears, though.

There's an open wound forming just above my heart. I know it's there, inside, squeezing tighter and tighter, my own gay death grip in my chest. It pounds, and beats, and hits and misses and hits again. Thump, thump, thump.

The door.

"David, is that you? Dave?"

He can't see me like this, I can't… I can't …

"Yeah, it's me, Dad. I'm OK."

I wasn't. Not by a long shot. I could see myself in the mirror becoming fainter and fainter as a reflection while the steam was rising and covering the mirror. Hugging the mirror, probably.

I hug myself. Wrapping my own arms around me. No one. No one to hug me. I'm not doing this to see if I can still feel. I just need support, and right now, I'm everybody in my world.

Hi, I'm Dave Karofsky. And so are you. And you. And you. You are the tiles, the mirror, the water draining and the water running on my face. Escaping. I can't. Can't escape.

But I can't turn off the water and the waterworks and come out and clean up the mirror and look at my own chubbsy self and learn to love it.

Hi, I'm Dave Karofsky, trapped in Dave Karofsky's old body. And I'm gay, it seems.

Vibrate. Something's vibrating. I can't even towel dry myself. My phone's in the coat pocket.

Another text. I haven't read the one I got before. This new one is from Z.

"U OK?"

Take a wild guess, Z – is what I should text, if all had stayed the same.

"Not cutting my wrists – I aint a pussy" is what I do text.

"Im comin over."

* * *

><p>To Be Continued<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

SETTING: GLEE 2.20 Prom Queen (non-canon)

POINT OF VIEW: David Karofsky (me)

DISCLAIMER: Fox owns the rights to GLEE. This is just fan fiction. Live with it.

* * *

><p>PROM KING, chapter 3<p>

* * *

><p>The king is naked. Almost.<p>

But I _want_ to be in my underwear. More like, _like_ it. I can open up to the world in my own room. Be wha… who I am. I should lock the door. Play no music. Pretend I'm asleep. Stare at the computer screen wanting and waiting and wailing and weeping and whirling with the letters and words and sentences and … Facebook status updates.

* * *

><p><strong>Jacob<strong>**Ben****Israel:** McKinley Junior Prom At Its Most SCANDALOUS! Get Your EXCLUSIVE Pics On My …

**Cheerio****#1:** That biatch Santana is no top hoe no more! Suck on that, Hispana!

**Teammate****#1:** Dave Karofsky, you got served! Some pink cherries! And some Wieners! Ha! Go Titanssss! ROFLOLMAO

**Teammate****#2:** Kurt Fucking Hummel is an abomination to Our Lord and Savior's sacred tradition of choosing a junior prom king and queen!

**Cheerio****#2: **I want to marry that guy that danced with Quinn Fabray… Oh, wait, he may be the king of queens. Or smthng.

**Brittany ****S. ****Pierce:** Lord Tubbington asked Artie if he likes jogging early in the _mourning_.

* * *

><p>New updates. Prom pics. Direct uploads. Nothing new. The same people. Different clothes. That don't make the man. The disrobing begins. The hating begins. Did it ever end? <em>Will<em> it ever end? No reason to hate _me_. It's just that I'm … naked. Gay naked. My first time as such. Another reason to be seen in the McKinley hallways as weak. It's not gonna be great. It's not gonna be _good_ even. Nothing on me will stay tall and carry a big stick. Nothing.

Just a pair of old boxer shorts on me. The king is almost naked. And there's something in his eye. The world, the time, the place.

Nearing 11 o'clock. Or more. A tear more. Nearing the one plus one. Hands of the clock touching, squeezing, touching, as lovers would. Two. Two tears more. The partners. The pairs. The couples. The beards.

Santana.

Still the same status update. Still the same picture of us as a profile pic. Her eyes speak volumes here. She's thinking of Britt, that much I do know. She's Santana's Prom Queen. But _we_ didn't get the crowns. _We_'ll get the jokes, Santana, you and I. The only _you __& __I_ that we'll get the chance to be. You are the beginning, I am the end. The starting points and the finish lines. The punch lines. Someone's bound to beat up the little scared pussy cat. Out of the bag. Not out of the closet… yet. Just slightly opened the door. To hang back my beard in there. And Pandora. Not the _Avatar_ Pandora, but that ancient legend. Things got unlocked, people pretended, we got stared at. Who stared at me… does it really matter. Come Monday, no one will remember. They'll just snicker. Whisper. Pretend some more. Hope. Last to die. But dies all the same.

Nothing posted on her wall. Some pics of me and her. The poster. That _darn_ poster. We should've … or not. Doesn't matter any more. It's irrelevant. Just as it doesn't matter that you're crying again.

Kurt's profile. Off limits. No trespassing, you _fucking_ bully and dumbass piece of shit.

And now that _you_'re the same? That _you_'re his king?

Still off limits. No trespassing as of yet.

So long, Facebook. If this tonight was a good time, it'll last as much as y'all's next status update. It's what I said to Hudson once. Post-zombie match. How did feel then?

On _top_.

Head in the clouds.

Hands holding an imaginary trophy at least twice per daydream.

It was the top of the iceberg, which melted.

Head in the clouds and I breathed in water vapor and started drowning soon after. The trophy fell, and first place became zero.

Binary language.

One or zero.

This outcome or that.

Win or lose.

King or peasant.

Dave or Kurt.

Plain gay or much gayer.

Round as a tear. There's no way back now. The flood is coming. I can swim. In calm waters. There's a storm, and it may pass soon without hitting here at all. Then again… It may damage. As in – damage everything. I need something to damage me. Or not. Not.

YouTube.

Yes.

Gotta get that _Dancing __Queen_ outta my head.

That I can dance.

That I can _fucking_ dance.

That I can't.

Quitter.

Damaged goods.

King for a day.

All that good shit from those good rock songs.

Or not.

* * *

><p>Search | <span>damaged <span>pe |

Search | damaged people depeche mode |

* * *

><p>I was gonna type <em>person<em>.

_One_ person. Me.

Dave equals Kurt.

Dave equals male Santana.

Dave _even_ equals Blaine.

Dave no longer equals Azimio, Hudson, Chang, Puck, Evans, the rest…

Dave no longer equals Dave.

So, Dave is no longer _one_ person.

Dave is _people_.

Dave is what others _aren__'__t_, or _are_.

* * *

><p><em>* plays Damaged People by Depeche Mode on YouTube *<em>

* * *

><p>Dave is damaged, drawn to the subtleties of Kurt that Dave is now more than aware of.<p>

Dave has a disturbed soul that'll have to play the game he was so scared of once.

But no one is in my arms, except myself, like this, in tears, yes, like in the shower before, and, no, I'm not dying. Not on the outside, at least.

Yes, I am damaged, praying but no one is listening, and deep inside me is nothing other than liking guys.

I have a depraved soul, yes, life hasn't denied me one thing only – being true to myself. I just got that particular gift. Or curse.

No one to feel around me, I am cold 'cos I'm naked, I was crying, yes, I was.

* * *

><p>But no kisses. Nothing. It ends. It was nice. I guess I didn't get shivers down my spine. No goose bumps. Nada. Just another song that ended. Just another prom that ended.<p>

Up. Up from that chair, will ya? Yes, stretch. What next. What to do next… nothing.

My gay self doesn't want to sleep. What will I dream then? What will I dread then? I'm fine. I'm not offended by what they did. No, I'm not. Really. I'm not. What bothers me about the whole thing is the way they did it. Secret ballot. They added Kurt's name and counted those votes too. In secret. People I thought I knew and trust…ed. Teammates.

Fuck them. Fuck them _all_.

The desk didn't need to get slapped, Dave. It stings a little. The noise was heard. Someone will come; demand an explanation for the noise, for your early coming home, for being in boxer shorts only. No one will. No one. They'll see you propped on the desk like this and think that you're staring at the computer screen and got pissed because of something you saw. Or read. Or heard. Something you perceived to be true. Something whose looks can be, and probably are, deceiving.

Thump, thump, thump. As strong as my anger pumping inside.

"Dave, you OK?"

My Dad's voice. Not taking sides. Somewhere between the binary language parts. In the grey. In the shades. I'm in the dark. Keeping him in the dark about the sex I've never had and the sex I'm apparently eager to have with my own sex. Will I stay alone forever is something we'll see.

"Yeah, just leave me alone, please."

"OK, I will, but someone's here to see you."

It must be Z. There's so much I don't want to say to him right now. I should talk to Dad, or Mom first. Or I'll burst. Explode. In the dark. I won't put on anything. Z knows me. My best friend. Or something. How do I know what he actually is? Friend or foe? But he's here. Not _somewhere_ else. Not at home, writing angry emails and messages to other people telling them about me. No. 'Cos that's a secret that needs to stay locked.

The door must be unlocked. I must do it. Not let Dad see me. Let Azimio in. Only him.

"Who?"

"It's _me_, Dave, open up."

Unlock. Enter. Close. Z. Frown. Tears. Half-naked. Look elsewhere. Not really comfortable. Not that I care. Offer him to sit on my bed. Sits before I point to it with my hand. Looks around, avoids me. Sit opposite him. In my boxer shorts. The computer behind. Facebook. YouTube. Things.

"You OK?"

Was what I thought and barely voiced. Something inside me surrendered completely to my own voice breaking. I knew the answer as I was dusting myself off from all the glass that broke when I spoke.

"I could ask the same"

He said when he finally looked at my barely dressed nakedness. He's seen me like that before. Not like _this_before. Not the _gay_ Dave he's seen recently. I'm guessing that he's looking for clues on my face. His forehead is full of straight lines, parallel ones. Barely curved. So is mine. But he's still searching for what he didn't notice before. Clues, eyebrows, cheekbones, lips' curvature, chin… Anything to spill the beans of why I'm like _this_. Why something is wrong with me. Why is he then staring at me this intently, breathing fire. If he could breathe fire.

"What did you tell my Dad?"

He must have said something to get in and get up. That I wasn't feeling OK. That I had a drink too many. Dad came with him to see what I'm up to. It's what dads do. Today, and, truth be told, since the whole expulsion thing, he's not sure what to do. But something needs to be done. Lobotomy. No. Acceptance.

"The truth. What happened."

Z looked down on the carpet. Where _I_ was looking at. My eyes pierced his once I managed to comprehend _what_ he said. What he fucking _admitted_ to doing.

I froze for a second. He didn't let the secret slip out. Did he? It's not like Z to be dumb.

"Dave, not what _you __told __me_. I don't have your permission to do that. And I don't want that responsibility thrust upon me."

"Z, I can't take my words back. Nor can I reverse _what_ and _how_ I feel."

"Faggy? Gayish? Queery? Something along those lines? And why are you naked in front of me? You don't… or… do you…"

He said like god put a smile on his face just to make me feel nervous.

"No, I… I mean… I dunno. Let me put something on."

Up. Up from the chair, rummage through the wardrobe, an old teal T-shirt. Long. Covering all. But the boxers will stay. He can't see anything. And I stand tall again.

Z sits in front the computer and starts rummaging through my browser's history.

"No gay porn? _Honestly_, Dave, I'm disap_point_ed."

My head is now free of my T-shirt and I'm still not sure that I heard this right. Not having gay porn in the browser history is now disappointing? Judging me? Now? Like that? But it's Z. He's got your back. It's better to pretend that nothing has changed. Even though everything is. That sheepish grin on his face. Teasing.

"I delete the history afterwards. Much safer. I remember the site and blog names, though."

"Maybe you'll consider not doing that anymore."

He wrote _gay __porn_ on Google and stuff just came out on the screen. Stuff I've watched even. Links clicked on. A laugh just came out of me. He's done stuff like that a million times. He laughed too, but didn't stare much at the screen. He looked at me, all smiley and happy-looking, but I noticed that he sized me up and stared at my crotch for a second longer than he should.

He was looking for a sign that I hadn't turned into a girl. I'm sure of that. He? He can't be gay. He can't. _I_ barely _am_ gay. When he opened another browser tab, I asked.

"Will you be OK with finding gay porn sites on my computer? If you choose to come over, that is…"

Please say _yes_. I need a friend. To play football with in the back yard. To go out in town with. Someone to drive me home when I get drunk out of my wits. Someone to tutor in Calculus, 'cos, Azimio, you Zuck at calculus. You Zuck so much the word _suck_ is now spelled with a Z. Good times.

"Not come over? You _serious_? Dude, it's not like you'll start to Gaga-costume yourself anytime soon, now, is it? That happens, and I'm a-gonna beat the living crap outta you. And your ass. At HALO."

That was code for _You__'__re __fine.__You__'__re __OK. __Now __let__'__s __do __what __we __do __best. __Trash __talk __each __other __while __playing __on __the __X-Box._ It's difficult not to get _that_ hint.

"So, wanna play a round?"

I know he'll readily agree. I know that tonight he was supposed to be getting drunk with me and the other guys after prom. Not be here and see me wreck myself over a freakin' prom king victory. Defeat, more like it.

Same face like when we were in front of the liquor store before. Maybe a little different. I can't tell standing like this. I sit on the bed, I know that look of his. He's serious. Not serious like when we slushied people. Nor like when I tutor him. More like, match serious, or girls serious, or my dad ain't well again.

"Sure… just… Dave, I gotta ask you this."

"Speak."

"You … done it? With a guy, I mean… you know?"

Curiosity. No cat's gonna die this time. The king must see that he's naked. Disrobed – not. Plain naked. In front of a friend. Thank god I'm wearing something right now. But I choose to let it out. With Z you're either honest, or he starts ignoring. You. Me. Whoever. He's a complex fella. As am I. And I just unlocked another level of complexity. The _sex-complicates-everything_ level.

"No. Dude, I just started accepting this. Sex is not the top of my TO DO list."

"But it's on your WISH list, I hope."

"It is… Kinda goes back and forth between first and second place."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, beating your ass at HALO in _my_ house is always #1!"

He knows where I keep my console and controllers, jumps outta my desk chair and starts setting everything up. I know this ain't prom proper, but it's close. One should be happy at prom. Right? Mark the end of the old, childish ways, and mark the start of the adulthood that is plain full of bullshit, but, hey, everyone's gotta do their dirty work. And/or job.

* * *

><p>We played for a couple of hours. Way, way past midnight.<p>

I didn't turn into a pumpkin. Not a shoe was lost.

But the King acknowledged that he was naked. That he needed clothes. Not Hummel's wardrobe, no sir. Something plain. Like my red-and-black plaid vest. My letterman jacket. Maybe even a slushie in my face.

It's what David does best.

Beginnings.


End file.
